


Crush

by Occula



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, M/M, oh adam, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occula/pseuds/Occula
Summary: Adam comes to realize he has a terrible crush on Edge. His insecurity leads him to hurt Edge and push him away, though. Larry helps Adam resolve to fight for what he really wants.





	1. Tally

**Author's Note:**

> This work means a lot to me: I discovered my OTP and my own voice in the process. It's very personal to me, and despite its flaws, of which I am well aware, I feel like it's the best I can do.   
> Thanks to everyone on ff.net and LJ for encouraging me back in the day. This was completed before 2005, but I'm not sure when. Probably a couple of years earlier.   
> If I can help steer anyone else to A/E, it's my pleasure.

They’re easy to categorize. Bono’s the quintessential front man, sex appeal on the hoof, the center of attention. Larry’s the brooding, youthful, acerbic one. Edge, the quiet, intelligent one.

I’m just the tall one. And that’s not saying much.

Sometimes I’m sitting there with some party swirling around me, and I see Bono and Edge with that special connection they have – brotherhood perfected to an art form – and at the same time you can almost _see_ the bedrock that is each one’s family, their foundations. I look at Larry, prickly as a hedgehog sometimes, but steady, his reliance on and love for his own family permeating everything he does.

And I just think, _Fuck, but I’m lonely._

I know it’s ridiculous. I don’t like or want children particularly. I have plenty of women, if that’s what I want. And friends. I’m hardly alone in the world. And I have _them_.

Larry’s been like a brother all these years; I love him like one, he’s family and I never tire of him. He may be prickly, but he’s also funny and sentimental; compassionate and strong; observant and gentle; and fundamentally there for you.

Bono, he couldn’t be a better person, but he’s always trying to be. He’s kind, he’s generous, he abounds in loyalty and dedication and devotion and what I’m forced to call spirituality, he’s lively and changeable and incredibly amusing, he’s like a one-man circus. I love him quite unlike anybody else I’ll ever meet.

And now my mental tally encounters the difficulty, does it not?

One of the smartest people I know, one of my oldest friends in the world, witty, brave, thoughtful, calm, kind, talented, handsome, Christ, I could go on and on. What’s wrong with me, how did this happen?

I realized it about a year ago. We were splitting up after a meeting that had turned into a long beery kind of conversation. I was standing by the door and happened to turn back when Bono was giving Edge the customary goodnight kiss on the lips. I was stunned by the jealousy that flared all through me in a moment. I left before anyone could see the look on my face, whatever it might have been.

They do that nearly every day. I’d never given it a thought before.

Shit, in the old days we’d stand in a circle, arms about one another’s waists, and pass a kiss around for luck before a big event anyway. Bono turns and kisses Edge, who turns and kisses Larry, who turns to kiss me, and I turn and give it back to Bono. Just a ritual peck, a seal, if you will. Crazy fucking religious nuts anyway, I used to think. We didn’t stand in any particular order. I’m sure I’ve held my lips against each of these men’s lips, surely I’ve kissed Larry and Bono, kissed _him_ , but the details escape me, it didn’t seem important, it was just something we did. A kind of good-luck charm.

I’d like another chance now, though, wouldn’t I?


	2. Continuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing he has a crush on Edge, Adam tries to distract himself. It doesn't work, duh.

I’ve always thought of sexuality as a kind of continuum with a fifty-percent mark in the middle, one hundred percent gay at one end and one hundred percent straight at the other. People who claim to be a hundred percent one way or the other are kidding themselves or lying outright. I think most people are closer to the middle than they suspect, somewhere in the seventies or eighties.

And yeah, among the scores of women there have been some men, when I was younger and _wanted_ to be bisexual as part of my persona. Sex with men failed to do much for me. Initially, there was just too much awkwardness and embarrassment for it to be much good, at least with guys my age. And my disastrous entanglement with a much older man … it was rough and frightening at the beginning and rapidly escalated into violent and humiliating, and I was lucky to get away from that one. As I said, I was pretty young. So I just figured well, I’m closer to the one end than I’d anticipated. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate beauty in the male form. What human could fail to find Bono compelling and desirable at least once in their life, however fleetingly. And it’s just closed-minded to not appreciate fine eyes or a nice ass because they happen to be on a man.

Fine eyes, shifting from dark to hazel, through green to gold and back.

A friend of mine -- a female friend -- once told me that women have the capacity to find any man sexually attractive if they think he’s talented. Neil Young, Bob Dylan, they could have three, five, ten women a night if they were interested. Talent is compelling. She thinks it’s the search for superior genetic material, which people define based on more than appearance. Your sexual self points you toward talented, intelligent, creative genes for your child, not always just the most appealing physical specimen.

I don’t know about that. And it shouldn’t apply to this situation anyway, if her theory is correct. I’m not exactly planning to bear Edge’s children.

But talented he certainly is, and how anyone could not admire that, not want to touch that, be warmed by its glow upon you … it’s why they all want a piece of Bono, but how can _he_ be overlooked so often? He’s utterly captivating when he plays. Performing, I don’t have opportunity to think of it much, but practicing, or when we see video of ourselves … God, I can hardly tear my eyes off him.

But I do. I always manage to. Because I _must_. That’s the last thing anybody needs to observe, or start to wonder about.

I’ve employed a variety of completely ineffectual coping mechanisms during the past year.

I tried just staying on the sidelines, smoking and drinking, listening and observing and communing, but not quite joining them, as a way to keep aloof. He began to make a point of including me. Subtly, in just that way he has of looking after those who need looked after. Directing questions at me occasionally, moving chairs slightly so that I was more in the circle, things like that.

I tried the other way, ignoring him and these thoughts and feelings by being the life of the party, going all out with the women whenever I found myself thinking of him … sexually. Women, a bit of drinking, and more women. He … well, he almost staged an intervention, I think. He had an earnest, concerned, compassionate, loving talk with me. It was almost more than I could bear.

I tried fulfilling my need for him by spending more time with him. We went to guitar stores together, I tagged along with him and Bono to some museums, I drug him to a couple of parties, that kind of thing. Apparently familiarity does not breed contempt in this case. We’d say goodbye, I’d close the door behind him, and I’d just fall back against the door in a disconcerted reverie composed of schoolgirl crush, real affection, and straightforward raging horniness commingled. If I spent two hours with him I wanted four; if I spent the morning I wanted the afternoon too.

Let’s not even _mention_ the nights.

I tried avoiding him. Skipped out on some meals, declined outings everyone else was going on, kept my distance. This got me, in addition to several “What the fuck is going on with you?”s from Larry, another caring little talk. That was the worst. Have I offended you, he asked me quietly, do you have something on your mind? Dear God. Somehow I found the restraint not to pin his body to the couch on which he sat and simply plunder him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up a much earlier bad relationship for Adam out of whole cloth.


	3. Coronado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the beach in San Diego, Adam has a moment with Edge, and has a few passing qualms about Edge's relationship with Bono.

I had a restless night; it was probably a touch of jet lag. I finally gave it up before sunrise and went out for a walk in my sweatpants and tee shirt. I was immediately glad I had. It was early summer and the air was that perfect temperature. Our hotel was actually on a kind of island (or peninsula or something; I hadn’t looked at a map) that, if I’d understood correctly, was occupied by a strange mix of coveted private homes, public beaches, and a military base.

I headed up the beach and had to stop and take off my sandals. Walking was awkward; the sand was shifting and solid, and it felt _deep,_ and cool on my feet. A refreshing breeze blew. To my right, a clean, broad swath of beach, stone walls, nice homes, spindly trees with amazing quantities of little purple-blue flowers on them, and palm trees. To my left, more beach and the Pacific, dark and gleaming. Eventually I sat and breathed and listened to the ocean’s surges and silences while the sun rose behind me, behind the city somewhere. Birds honked and swooped, and far away to the left I saw what someone at the hotel had told me were the lights of Tijuana, and I was alone at the end of the continent.

Wow.

I’m not supposed to be the thoughtful one, or particularly soulful, but damn, I loved this place. It was wholesome and cleansing. Facing the water, I could imagine there wasn’t a city for a hundred miles.

So I just sat there and enjoyed it. I imagined kraken washing ashore, natives hauling outriggers up on to the beach, Spanish ships looming in the distance, shark fins, the Beach Boys blasting, hippie surfers, Jim Morrison. I wondered whether the island and hotel were named after a Spaniard or whether the name meant “coronation” or maybe “crown.” I wondered if those were all seagulls or whether there were albatrosses or something among them, and those must be pelicans. I realized I was parched. Ocean or no, this was an arid climate. Far up the beach I saw a figure with a surfboard heading out to the water, two jubilant dogs doing laps around him or her. I burrowed down into the sand with my toes and watched the light gleam off the edges and crests of waves.

I was daydreaming about buying a vacation home here when he plopped down beside me. When I saw that he had a bird identification book and two bottles of water, I laughed out loud. What, no Spanish-English dictionary? He handed one of the bottles to me and opened the book. What a geek. “Thanks. So those are pelicans, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“The others?”

“Well, those ones with the legs are plovers, I believe, and there are several kinds of seagulls, but they’re tricky because some varieties don’t get their adult plumage until they’re something like three or four years old, so it’s much harder to identify them. You have to look at the tails, the spots on the bills, that kind of thing.” He held the book so I could see the illustrations, his shoulder leaning against mine. “You’re up early.”

“Jet lag, I suppose. You?”

“Bono’s jet lag.”

“Ah.”

Once that would have signified nothing. Now I imagine all kinds of unlikely scenarios and curse Bono for having so much of this wondrous man.

At least, I _hope_ the scenarios I’m imagining are unlikely.

“Isn’t this …” He gestured vaguely at the sand, the sea, the sky, grinning at me. The early sun caught the flecks of gold in his eyes. “… absolutely magnificent?”

“I was just thinking I should buy a house here. Can you imagine doing this every morning? Dear diary: Today I looked at, listened to, and breathed the Pacific Ocean for twelve hours. Then I had sushi and took a nap. I am utterly blissed out.”

“There’s something so primal, so fundamental, about our connection to the ocean. Maybe it’s a collective genetic memory, our birthplace calling out to us, or perhaps, because the ocean’s always been such a source of nutrition – and thus survival – to humanity, we instinctively see it as a place of welcome, nurture, and security.”

“That’s what I said. Sushi and a nap.”

He was holding a place in the book with one finger, looking off at the water. I noted for the millionth time the planes of his cheekbones, the pleasant irregularity of his stubbly chin -- oh, fuck this -- I tried to pass by his eyes on the way back toward the ocean and found that he was looking right at me.

Great.

He was smiling at the natter and our surroundings, and I was smiling a little too, and suddenly I … well, it sounds so stupid, but I couldn’t look away from that handsome face, his pleasant expression, and his warm, affectionate eyes. I was utterly compelled. Entrapped. The man is a magnet, and I was … just helpless. His shoulder was warm against mine, and I knew that in another ten seconds I would blurt out something shocking or lean toward him, already so close, and completely humiliate myself somehow.

That’s when the first of the little fighter jets came overhead, low, making us both look up, annihilating conversation on its way to landing maneuvers just north of us, followed by another, and another. You couldn’t quite see the landing strip, but it must have been barely out of sight.

He said something that included “fucking” and “noise” and “pollution,” kind of rolled his eyes, and walked off to the water. Although he was wearing jeans, he waded out up to his knees and shuffled around out there for a while as the jets continued to take off and circle and land. A few times he bent to look at things in the water. No doubt some rarified whelk caught his eye, or a particularly enchanting variety of seaweed.

I didn’t know whether to be disappointed that the moment had gone, or hugely relieved that nothing had come of it … I settled on relieved plus angry with myself for being so weak. I told myself to keep closer guard in the future. Be careful, you stupid fuck. But for now, Clayton, let’s just have a good stare. Look.

He’s bending over again.


	4. Me and the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam realizes he can't think himself out of his crush ... so he begins to think himself into it instead.

Only later did I wonder about the two bottles of water he’d brought. On the one hand, he always demonstrates exactly that kind of preparedness. After all, he has to mind Bono. So over-preparedness probably is habitual.

But he knew perfectly well where Bono was, as he’d just told me that he was awake because Bono had had jet lag. Bono=not on the beach. Although everybody operates on autopilot sometimes, he tends to be precise and efficient. Not the type to carry an extra bottle of water along the beach for no reason.

I think.

As I said, that came later. I had plenty else to think about in the weeks that followed anyway. San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver. Being on the road is … well, primarily, it’s more humdrum than people would imagine. You always seem to be realizing that the particular shoes you’ve spent the past half hour looking for are actually in your closet back home and you’ll have to wear something else or buy another pair. And yes, we generally can have whatever we want. But sometimes what you really want is to wake up in your own bed and make your own goddamn sandwich exactly the way you like it and drink milk from the carton and, you know, play slap bass all night in your underwear. Or whatever.

Sometimes you start to think that if you have to live with one more piece of shitty hotel art for a week, you’ll actually go insane. You crave something, not necessarily familiar, but at least _personal._ Instead you come into an impersonal place and live in it for a while and then you leave and take your things with you and all trace of you is removed and someone else comes into it to live for a while. It just gives you an odd sense of disassociation.

Then there’s the waiting. We’re far enough up the ladder that we don’t have to play a million shows in a million smaller cities. That means we have a nice pad between shows in which to take it easy. But we’re also far enough up that we don’t _need_ all that time, since we’re not trying to cross three states in a bus and get there in time to load in our gear, get set up, and squeeze in a soundcheck. When you get to the point where you don’t change your own strings anymore, you sometimes feel like a circus animal that’s trotted out of its crate to run through its tricks and then packed away again to pace until the next time. It can become very fucking tedious.

I know that’s ungrateful. We always dreamt of this. Everyone who picks up a guitar dreams of this, and we have it. How can I complain about being filthy rich, traveling, being in a rock band -- particularly this rock band? I’d have to be stupid to not appreciate every second of it.

I do appreciate it. I _love_ it. More than anything, I love performing. I enjoy flying, I love the strange cities, nice hotels, limousines, seeing the world; I love having the luxury of time, time to wander the cities we’re passing through. It’s nice to have people to look after the mundane details like laundry for you. I like being famous enough that I can get into places and do things that I want, but not so famous that I have to wear a disguise and worry about being mobbed. Larry and I can still go shopping without fearing for our lives or go to concerts without creating a major disruption. Edge, too, to some extent. He has a knack for blending in. I think it’s that he exudes a kind of _quietness_. Unlike some lead singers I could mention. Bono could wear a sack over his head and he’d still get asked for autographs.

So. I spent the next few weeks getting into the routine of the tour. At the same time I spent the next few weeks thinking intensely about personal matters. The last thing before dropping off to sleep: Edge. The first thing upon waking: Edge. It was sickening. I was noticing things one doesn’t ordinarily notice amongst one’s male friends. Whether he’d shaved. The mixed colors in his beard. Wet, black hair against his white neck at breakfast. The quietness of his laugh. How he could dress so casually, almost shabbily, yet look so elegant. My body responded to his presence with an adrenaline rush that was the equivalent of a couple of quick lines of cocaine; I felt alert and clearheaded, nervous and unsettled.

I’ve never been one to refrain from the pursuit once I’m interested in someone. But I had plenty of worries in this case.

Did I really want this, want to sleep with him? I’d been with men before, but that was far in the past. And the last one, as I’ve said, had been such a horrible experience that I’ve avoided that situation ever since. I was finding Edge attractive, yes, but was it just some kind of schoolboy crush, or did I really want to have sex with him?

Real desire for him manifested itself physically, many times over, in his presence and out of it. Yes, I wanted him. Yes. But psychologically? Emotionally? Was I prepared for the reality of actually having sex, at this point in my life, with another man?

The devil on my left shoulder whispers, _There’s only one way to find out._

My right shoulder seems to be uninhabited.

When I’m interested in someone I always have to contend with the question of whether they could actually desire someone like me. Especially when the victim in question is a brilliant, attractive genius. I’m just some guy with a bass. But this was a question not only of whether he could ever fancy _me_ but also of whether he could ever fancy a man at _all._ I certainly don’t know the answer to that one. Would he even consider it in light of our longstanding friendship?

Then there’s the matter of the band. I don’t pretend I can see all the ramifications there.

There’s only one way to find out.


	5. Sotto voce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a show, Adam rides an emotional roller coaster, Bono gets kissy, and Larry suspects something.

My plan of attack was to approach the subject quite gradually. After all, it might take him some time to get used to the idea. So I began to act in a way that would barely register as flirting; I was attempting to insinuate myself into his awareness little by little. Although such things had been random in the past, I now made an actual effort to be seated next to him when I could do so without the effort being noticed.

All of us are affectionate with one another, accustomed to hugging or throwing an arm around a mate, and relatively lacking in body consciousness. The Irish are more touchy-feely than the English or Americans anyway. And once you’ve slept in the same car, been piss drunk together so many times, shared a hotel room when you all had the flu, well, things like whether your legs touch in a crowded restaurant tend to fade away. So when, leaving a room, I put my hand on the small of his back or his triceps for a moment as though guiding him through the door, it might not be noticed.

Or it might. Eventually.

Don’t think I was cool and collected about it, though. On the contrary, I was in a state of glorious agitation. But I did my best to hide my fear, my hope, my longing. To be composed. Composed when our hands touched over the lighting of a cigarette or the pouring of a drink, when we sat at a crowded bar and the lengths of our thighs pressed together. When Bono sat with an arm around Edge half the night. When I managed to say something amusing and was rewarded with Edge’s sudden laugh.

It probably doesn’t count as “composed” when you’re struggling to conceal a state of continuous arousal, though.

In Denver we could do no wrong. The audience was amazing from the beginning, with the kind of energy and affection that uplifts you and continues to push you higher and higher the whole night. Sometimes it happens like that; the audience’s energy becomes something tangible and transforms our performance into something bigger, greater, and more profound. As Bono likes to say, sometimes there aren’t four members of U2, there are fifty thousand and four. The fans must have been as drained as we were afterward, if not more so. Returning to the hotel would have just been wrong after that, so we showered and changed and then bounced around some bars and clubs instead. Some of the crew came too.

We were riding that delicious high, chattering away like maniacs to one another and drinking like fish, even me, everyone absolutely buoyant. Bono, completely uncontainable, made dozens of friends. He kept getting up and coming round the table, beaming, and hugging each of us and kissing our foreheads. Larry was a regular chatterbox, laughing his arse off at the least provocation. I think he bought a round for the whole place at one point. Edge and I were crammed into the corner, shoulders touching, knees touching. We were actually more comfortable if I put my arm on the back of the bench we were occupying. Such were the scraps of clandestine pleasure on which I was sustaining myself.

Careful, I told myself yet again. Slowly.

Someone sent over a pitcher of something called “kamikazes” -- Larry warned us that it was, in essence, a pitcher of shots. It was icy cold and sweet-tangy, and it rather conflicted with the scotch I’d been trying unsuccessfully to nurse, but we were beyond such niceties by that time. It had gotten very late. I praised Edge. Edge praised me. Together we praised Bono and Larry, the crowd (again), the venue, the lighting crew, the sound crew, the security, the inventor of the kamikaze, and Leo Fender. When I leaned forward to talk to Larry, I felt Edge’s level gaze on me. Then I felt a hand. No doubt about it. In the middle of my back. Just resting there, lightly, as I’d been touching him lately. Then it was gone. When I leaned back I shot him what I hoped was a casual glance. He was talking to Bono across the table, but I saw his eye flicker. He knew I was looking at him now, and I saw the faintest suggestion of a smile in the corner of his eye, the line of his mouth.

That hand. I didn’t know what it meant, but I couldn’t stop thinking of it, and his expression afterward. That little smile.

“You do know you’re a genius, don’t you? You just fucking get better and better,” Bono was saying.

“Did you hear those microphonics I was getting during the encore? I thought I was going to lose my mind,” Edge said. “I think one of my pre-amp tubes is going; they’re Yugoslavian, and the quality control isn’t the best. Could you hear it, Adam?”

He turned to me. He put his hand on my knee for a fraction of a second when he said my name. “No, it wasn’t in my monitor. I think you have to be a lot closer than I am to hear that kind of thing through the stage sound, especially if it’s just filament whine and not an actual rattle.”

“Well, it’s easily replaced, but it’s number one on my list for tomorrow, let me tell you,” Edge said.

“You’re number one on my list tonight!” Bono crowed. Edge laughed and shook his head. It had been hours, but Bono was still in that post-performance buzz. My head was spinning from the show, Edge’s proximity, the booze, and the adrenaline letdown that always comes sooner or later. My internal scorecard had many small triumphs I would pore over later. Sitting so close to him all night. His hand on my back. My god, he’s starting to flirt back. Perhaps. If such a thing is possible. …

… Which it probably is not. I indulged in my lifelong habit of going back and forth between jubilation and despair. He’s completely oblivious to my intentions; he’s just being nice. He’s so far above me. It could never happen.

I just let the voices in my head argue about the possibilities and likelihoods while I savored the reality and had another cigarette. His presence was as intoxicating as the drink.

“… where the fuck are you, anyway?” It was Larry.

I gave my head a shake. “Sorry, Lar’, I spaced out for a moment. I think I’m crashing.”

He scowled in that penetrating way of his. “You’ll have to tell me about it sooner or later, Sparks,” he whispered. Then he was leaning back and grinning and pouring us more drinks as though the moment had never happened.

Oh, shit. _Shit_. He saw something.

…And he was right, I thought as I rubbed my eyes. I did have to tell him about it sooner or later. Please, God, let it be later. Please, God, I hope Edge and Bono didn’t hear that. Glancing their way, I saw that they could not have heard. Bono had squeezed close and thrown his arm around Edge’s shoulders and was engaged in kissing him on the temple. Edge made a shooing gesture and took another drink as best he could, encumbered. Bono wouldn’t let go; he gave a series of little pecks down Edge’s cheek. Edge rolled his eyes theatrically, his expression long-suffering. “Come on, B., give it a rest,” he said mildly.

Bono spoke quietly onto Edge’s jaw, but to me his words overrode even the horrific music coming from the dance area. “I want your mouth, Reg,” he said, so softly that I got most of it through reading his lips. The feeling that plunged through me was the same as standing on a roof and looking straight down off the side; a sickly thrill ran through my gut and thighs.

Edge blushed, but remained composed. He spoke to Bono as one reasons with a much-loved child. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Besides, someone at the bar has a camera, and haven’t we done enough to feed rumor’s flames?”

“Never, love.”

Edge put his hands on Bono’s chest and actually pushed him away, gently. Kindly. “No,” he said with quiet emphasis. “Stop it, now.” Bono sat back for a second. Then he laughed and flung his arms around Edge and gave him another resounding smack on the cheek. “Behave!” Edge commanded, then he broke up laughing himself, glowing with affection. “You’re absolutely incorrigible.”

Nobody could ever want anyone else when Bono’s in their life. Certainly Edge has enough, enough in his life without me. I felt my face settle into hard, defeated lines.

Fuck.

I stood up and got my smokes off the table. “I’m calling it a night,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”

Larry laughed. “Bono won’t be exhausted for ages,” he said. “I’m still flying, too.” He pointed at me. “But remember what I said. See you tomorrow.”

I was brave enough to look at Edge as I said my goodnights. Perhaps there was a flicker of something like concern in his eyes.

Perhaps it was my imagination.

I got my miserable self the hell out of there.


	6. My Own Personal Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is where the magic happens.

The fresh air outside was wonderful, and my buzz was still going strong, but I was then confronted with another of the problems with being on the road -- never knowing where the fuck I’m going. Larry and Edge always know where we are, and Bono and I are always completely lost.

I knew we’d been working our way, pub by pub, back toward the hotel, and I knew what street the hotel was on, so I started off in what I hoped was the right direction. I went into a late night coffeehouse and asked for a double shot to go. It was late, and my stomach would probably regret it after the drinking, but what can I say? I have an addictive personality. I asked the girl who took my order whether I was on the right track to the hotel and she told me where it was, just a few blocks up and over. Like everyone else in there, she was half my age. God. When I turned to go I spotted a table of longhairs, all in various concert shirts, and they were frankly gaping at me with obvious recognition, so that made me feel better. I smiled and waved as I left. God bless the longhairs.

Having directions freed me to concentrate on moping as I walked. I was thinking that I’d been a fool, that, clearly, there was no room for me in the equation, whatever the equation was. At least I hadn’t made an ass of myself by going too far. Perhaps he’d begun to notice, but no irreversible damage had been done. That was good. The band had come too far for me to fuck it up now. I’d been on shaky ground enough already.

In my room I finished the coffee and slipped off my shoes. I thought about taking my third or fourth shower of the day, but I didn’t know whether I had the energy. I felt so weary. Weary and defeated. I had taken off my shirt and was well into brushing my teeth when there was a knock on the door. Larry, coming to find out what was going on. I was lucky to have him; he cared about me too much to let me wallow all night. I called “Just a minute” and rinsed, grabbing a towel as I went to the door.

“Hey, Larry --” I opened the door wide.

Not Larry.

Him. The Edge.

I felt my affectionate grin fading on my face. “Hey,” he said.

I turned away under the guise of drying my face, stepping back so he could come in.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked when I had controlled my facial expression.

“No, thanks.” He hadn’t yet sat down.

I was dying of curiosity. And furtive pleasure. At least I could look at him a little more before I turned in. He stood there, angular and compact, wearing his after-gig torn jeans, some kind of long-sleeved tie-dyed tunic with a lot of reds and yellows in it, and a black cloth around his head, like a pirate, showcasing his striking features.

He was hesitant, walking about the room a little, looking at the book on the bedside table, the CDs scattered on a chair. “Great show,” he finally said yet again. “I have a feeling we’re going to be saying ‘Remember Denver?’ for a long time to come.”

Nothing that had transpired could take away that triumph. It made me smile all over again. “Fantastic. The crowd was incredible.” I sat in the chair over which I’d tossed my shirt, watching him. He looked out the window, then wandered back. He looked like he wanted to say something. I moved to scratch my back, and he walked over behind me and began to scratch it for me. I leaned forward to give him greater access.

At his touch my whole back sprang to life and demanded immediate attention. I went ahead and directed him left, up, middle. It was a terrible pleasure, a lovely torment, his hands on my naked back. Then he began to rub my tense muscles, starting around my kidneys and working up to the hard knots at my shoulderblades, then up to my neck. God, it felt good. My back and neck were utterly relaxed, and every other part of my body was utterly tense. My stomach was a tight fist. My heart raced. My brain was an adrenaline, caffeinated, alcoholic, smitten whirl of despair and joy and urgent desire.

He left his right hand resting lightly on my right shoulder. I didn’t know what the hell he thought he was doing, and I didn’t care. It was one step too far. It was one of those consequences-be-damned moments. I turned my head, nuzzled under his thumb, and put my lips against the soft inside of his wrist.

Just this small pleasure was so much more than I’d thought I’d ever get. His skin smelled of fresh soap. I was grateful he couldn’t see my face. I held my lips there for a blessed moment, trying to sear it into my memory banks so I could keep it forever. I felt his pulse suddenly begin to kick harder beneath my mouth. He must’ve been too shocked to jerk away. Then I stopped, full of terror and a kind of mad bravado that’s born of taking the plunge. There. It was done. It was revealed. It was too late.

There was a frozen moment. I heard him take a breath. Then his voice, softly surprised. “… Adam?” I felt his hand move ever so slightly, as though he would remove it, and I reached up and grasped his wrist with my left hand, silently begging for just a little more. When it’s too late to go back, you might as well be reckless. I held it there while I turned again and kissed the wrist, once, twice, and then the palm of his hand. He wasn’t trying to pull his arm free. I made myself stop. I made myself let go his arm, and I turned away from him, from the scene of the crime. He still didn’t move his hand away. I covered my face with my guilty left hand. Christ, now what, what was I going to say to him.

He seemed to be standing even closer to me than a moment ago. This time the surprise in his voice was low and pleased. “Adam …” he said. “I came here to try to say … I didn’t want you to have the wrong idea. About Bono. You know how he is. He always kind of hangs on me like that. But there’s never been anything more … nothing physical beyond that. You know it’s true.”

I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. “Why did you want to tell me that?”

His hand moved now, from my shoulder up my neck and into my short hair, where it stayed, caressingly. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I wasn’t sure about you. What you were doing -- whether I was making too much of it, seeing what I wanted to see. But when you were leaving tonight I knew it was something to do with Bono and me, and I didn’t want you to believe a misconception.”

“Whether you were seeing what you wanted to see,” I said. Then I turned and grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, stumbling and off-balance, so that he was across my lap, and then I was holding him in my arms and kissing him, afraid and elated. He was heavy, but I didn’t let him fall. His moustache shocked me and his lips shocked me and his tongue shocked me when he gently licked my lips so that I opened them. Two decades since I’d held a man in my arms, since I’d run my hands over a man’s chest and belly. He smelled delicious, clean and dark and smoky.

I discovered a number of things very quickly. How his tongue felt, how it tasted, where his nose belonged. How hard his shoulders were, how much I loved the hard knobs where his collarbones joined them. How slender he was, but so strong. What his hands felt like, clutching my shoulders. What his moans sounded like, low and brief. How I’d wanted this, wanted it even more than I’d known. We didn’t stop kissing, didn’t pull back to even look at one another; we separated only enough for inarticulate, moaning affirmations and then our mouths sealed together again. Hungry, we were both so hungry. We lost all knowledge of time. I was frantic, frantic to have him, to keep him, frantic when I tore off his shirt and the pirate’s cloth with it, when his hands began to open my belt. I knew at that moment that he had become necessary, that I could not live without taking him.

He was as needy and aggressive as I was as we clutched one another, undressed one another, and then somehow were on the bed, naked. He was like a sculpture come to life, magnificent, a higher being condescending to play human for a time, unbelievably perfect. I wanted to worship him, worship him as best I could with my undeserving hands and my mouth and my body, show him that I understood the value of what he was giving me. His presence was a miracle I would never deserve.

And then, suddenly, drunkenly, we had passed the point at which, if one of us were a woman, we would already be joined. And we didn’t know what to do, where to begin; we didn’t know what we were doing, we were inexperienced, unsure, children.

I begged him to let me take him. I told him what I wanted to do to him and I said I’d be as slow and gentle as possible, swore I’d do violence to myself if I hurt him or harmed him. And he agreed. He agreed. I prepared him, as gently as I could, with too much lotion and with one finger, with two fingers, until he thought he could accept me. Then I went as carefully as I could, slowly, telling him to relax, telling him all he had to say was “stop,” caressing his back. I had never felt such overwhelming sensations as those that ran through me when I moved, a little further, and then a little more. He cried out with my every motion. I couldn’t stand the thought that I was hurting him. His knuckles were white as he clutched the bed.

“Do you want me to stop?”

He shook his head, fiercely.

“I’m hurting you.” I was anguished.

“It’s … yes, but I think it’ll get better,” he gasped. “It’s a good pain. Go ahead … just be careful.”

My own urgent desire took second place to the necessity of his well-being. But finally I was fully inside him, trembling with restraint. “Is it all right?”

He nodded. I could see that he was biting his lip.

“Don’t let me hurt you. Please. Just tell me to stop.”

His voice was rough and husky with need and pain. “Jesus, don’t stop now, Adam.”

I had to take a minute to control myself, then. Those words in that voice were the most sexually exciting thing I’d ever heard in my life. I held his hips, groaning, while I fought to back down, back down. His hipbones were sharp, but the skin there was so soft, like his wrists had been. When I could, I started to move again, slowly, keeping as controlled as I could manage. His moans began to change tone, lowering from pain toward pleasure. And finally he said, “Yes, oh, it’s all right now. Fuck me, Adam.”

Jesus Christ. So I did, with more assurance now. I was utterly consumed, shaken by vast waves of pleasure. He thrust back to meet me as I became more and more urgent. When I reached around to grasp him, he actually screamed with pleasure, muffling his face in a pillow. I’d never heard anything like it. I’d never forget it. His cries were a sacred song climbing higher and higher until his body convulsed and he was coming and calling my name over and over again, stretching out the second syllable. It was the loveliest thing I’d ever witnessed and I drove into him then, hard, and answered him with a stream of words, “God, you’re so beautiful, I love you, Edge, you’re, you’re fucking _divine_ , I love you.” I’d never felt anything like it before, the strength with which my pleasure built and built and took me with him to a more powerful place than I’d ever been and kept me there with lights dancing before my eyes, shaking and holding on to him.

I was afraid again when I finally withdrew. I thought that if I saw his blood I would kill myself. Thank God there was none. We fell onto our sides and I curled up behind and around him. We were both gasping and shivering, hearts racing. When I could speak I asked again whether he was all right, whether I’d harmed him.

“No, it did hurt at first -- more than I expected -- but it was incredible. I’ll be all right.” He took a long pause, then said quietly, “I never did that before, Adam.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” I answered softly. “Thank you for letting it be me.”

He turned enough to look over his shoulder at me. “You have.”

“Not for a long time,” I said. “Not for twenty, twenty-five years.”

He digested this, as he thinks through everything. “Thank you,” he said at last.

I held him as close as I possibly could until he slept. Then I backed off, gingerly, enough to lean over him and just look. I felt overjoyed and somber and amazed. I stared at his face, at his throat, at every detail of him. I memorized his sideburns, learned the lines around his eyes, studied his chin that I had known so well for what seemed like my whole life. In my heart I made a safe and secret place, and I put all these precious things inside. I’d have them no matter what came of this. Here, freckles on his shoulders. Here, the little hollow at his breastbone. His barely-parted lips. Cheekbones. Eyelashes. Breathing.

Suddenly it was too much, just too much, and I slid out of bed and went into the bathroom and closed the door and looked at myself in the mirror. The same aging German chemist to whom I’ve grown accustomed looked back at me, but his eyes were wide and frightened. Then my breathing caught and my chest hitched and I didn’t know what was happening, whether I was crying or laughing or losing my mind. It was too much. I’d never felt this way before, never felt these things for the person in my bed … I couldn’t even articulate it to myself at first, that I’d never been in love with the person I had made love to, never before in my life, never until now, and it had been so much more than I’d ever imagined both physically and emotionally. So much more. I was completely unsettled and overwhelmed.

So I stood there like that for a while until I could breathe again. Finally I splashed my face with water and felt I’d begun to return into my body from wherever I’d been. I cleaned myself up and went back into the bedroom and got back into what had become sacred territory. I moved against him until there was as much contact between our bodies as there could comfortably be, and I went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Likeamadonna used the phrase "fucking divine" in 2002 and I stole it from her to use here. THANK


	7. Crashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit more fun, Adam makes a decision that surely is not among his best.

I woke up, just a little, a couple of hours later, alone. Downcast and a bit bewildered, I turned over -- and saw the light under the bathroom door. My mood soared again. He had come to me. We had kissed. Oh, kissing him had been so very good. We had slept together. He was in my bathroom. Grinning, I fell back asleep.

I woke again to his weight on top of me. In the darkness I could see that his stunning triangular eyes were half-open and sleepy. We were all skin on warm skin. He was hard against my stomach. One of his hands traced across my hip, my waist, up my chest, and onto my face. His smile was shy as he outlined my features. “Perfect nose,” he whispered, and kissed it. “Round chin.” Kiss. The look in his eyes was so warm that I felt like a plant opening under a lamp. I became more and more naked, and devoted, and helpless. I was his, completely at his mercy. Totally vulnerable, and yet, there with him, in his warmth, I was totally safe.

He shifted so our hardnesses rubbed tantalizingly together. His expression was one of languid delight as he slid himself against me, so slowly. I looked into his eyes as I ran my hands over his slim body, marveling. I bit his chin and kissed his neck as we gently moved together. It was brief. I rose quickly, quickly, to the brink, my body still gloriously drowsy, and I wrapped both arms around him tightly as I came, loving him, my cries muffled against his shoulder and neck. I was still crying out when he said “Oh -- oh -- _oh_ ” and kissed my mouth firmly, fervently, thrusting against me, slippery now, his whole beautiful body rigid, his moans and mine captured inside each other’s mouths. When we were finished he held my head between his hands and said my name, quietly, four times.

We held one another, messy and wet as we were. “It’s so surreal,” I said finally. “It’s like a dream.”

“My dreams are never this good,” he said. I put his delicious, salacious grin among the memories I was storing away like some kind of rodent saving up for the winter that was bound to come. I was so full of an odd mixture of somber, anxious joy, I felt as though I were illuminated. What was the expression, triste something, that meant mixed feelings after sex? He would know.

I couldn’t stop running my hands over him, caressing him, confirming that he was really there. Partly draped in sheets, he was like a Greek statue come to life. I savored his smooth skin, his hard bones, the contours of his muscles, the weight of him still half on me, the scrape of his beard, the feel of his chest hair, thinking how few people had been privileged to see him so intimately. This night was like a gift to me from the gods, the kind of gift that mortals have never been able to refuse, regardless of consequences. Regardless.

He was blushing under my scrutiny. Finally he laughed a little. “Really, Ad. You’re embarrassing me.”

“I just can’t believe it. I was just thinking how lucky I am to be with you like this, that it’s like a gift.”

“I feel rather fortunate myself.”

“I feel like it’s a, a theft of time,” I said. “Like we’ve stepped _outside_ , somehow. It feels stolen. And thinking about it in those terms just makes me aware of the real world we have to go back to.”

“No real world for a few more hours, at least,” he said. “I feel like this is some kind of haven with just us two in it. Private and safe. … And I’ve always loved that thing your eyebrows do.”

“My eyebrows? What thing?”

“Where the inside ends go up. I can’t do that.” He made several faces, moving his eyebrows. I laughed at him, and he laughed at me, and then I yawned, and he yawned back, and we held one another some more.

I have brief flashes of waking up a few more times in the night. Just a few warm moments. Once I was on my side, feeling his body curled around me, his arm around my ribs. Later, I woke and saw his sleeping face right in front of me, so close he was all nose. I smiled blearily through what was surely the beginning of a nasty hangover and kissed him on the forehead. Was all his skin that soft? I hoped to find out. Then I slept yet again.

Suddenly I woke up to the soft sound of the room’s door closing. The bed and the room and I were bereft of him. I sat up, reaching for my glasses, and regretted it; my head was thumping and my stomach felt unstable. His clothes were gone; he’d gone. In looking around, I saw his dented pillow. I picked it up and hugged it to my chest, smiling. Then I laughed at myself. I was pathetic. Pathetically smitten. I held the pillow while I relived a number of the moments that had passed. And I forcibly held the real world at bay while I did so, just allowing myself a little more time, a little more happiness, before I confronted reality.

Finally I sighed and let my thoughts wander. You might be surprised to learn that I was glum and apprehensive after what was surely the best night of my life.

The truth is that I had glimpsed pure joy, and it had scared the hell out of me.

I was afraid of attaining something so glorious and then losing it. But worse was the knowledge that I in no way deserved something as wonderful as what I had just experienced. Yes, I was worried that he’d gone further than he would have sober and that today he would be remorseful. But even more frightening was the possibility that he was happy about it and would want to pursue something with me.

Because I knew only too well what the inevitable result would be.

Once he really got to know me intimately, he would find out … would find out what I really was, that inside me was a small, dark, twisted, unwantable creature from which lovers had been fleeing for fucking _decades._ I was used to seeing that in myself. But if he saw that, if _he_ saw that loathsome fucking thing inside me, I didn’t know whether I could bear it. To lose not only his love but also his affection and regard, all of it, that would just kill me.

I was fucking terrified. And suddenly exhausted. I slunk to the bathroom and took many aspirin. When I came back I was awake enough to see the note that he had apparently tucked under my glasses.

_Sorry to just leave this note. I’m late meeting B._

_We were pretty drunk last night -- thanks for letting me crash here, and I guess that’s all I’ll say. See you later. E._

I reacted in several ways all at once. Part of me was delighted to have this scrap of paper with his writing on it. Part of me seized on the “thanks” and “see you later” to cherish. Part of me focused on how he’d come to my bed from Bono and had gone from my bed to meet Bono again. But the largest part was puzzled and a little hurt by this cryptic message from the person I’d just made love to, the person who’d filled my heart. By the “sorry” and “I’m late” and “we were drunk.”

The impersonal tone. That was what confused me. This note could have been written to anybody.

I knew that my tendency would be to make too much of it, though, so I tried not to. I forced myself to go clean up and I stood in the shower for a long time, thinking tiredly of nothing but him, us, _this_. Clean and dressed, I was picking up my clothes from the night before and thinking about how they’d got on the floor to start with, when there beneath my trousers I found the length of black silk he’d had wrapped around his head, still knotted. I put my face into it, smelling clean hair and stale smoke and warmth and him. Just him. I picked the knot apart and folded the cloth like a large handkerchief and stuffed it into my pocket. Then I sat and smoked and drank some bad hotel coffee and read the note a few more times, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in my muzzy head.

_Sorry to just leave this note. I’m late meeting B._

He wanted to say more. He had to hurry away. He had to hurry away to Bono … whom he’d left last night to come to me. Nevertheless, he was with Bono now. I was with a hotel notepad.

_We were pretty drunk last night._

There could be many nuances there. A subtle way of telling me he’d behaved uncharacteristically. An apology of sorts. A reminder that I had been drunk and … I had been the one to come on to him. To take advantage of his drunkenness and mine.

Was that what he was thinking? It was true that I’d pressured him, begged him. Used him?

Well, I was known for that, wasn’t I?

_Thanks for letting me crash here, and I guess that’s all I’ll say._

That was the worst part. Thanks for letting me crash here. As though I’d let a friend pass out on my sofa, nothing more.

I crumpled the note and dropped it in the trash.

Then I went out. I blew several thousand dollars on clothes, and by the time I was finished I had convinced myself that what had occurred was a one-night stand, it _had_ to be, regardless of my emotional involvement. That little note … so impersonal. His early departure. My unworthiness. Our drunkenness. My willingness to take advantage of the situation. I was a user, all right; I’d proven over and over again that I was a selfish bastard. I’d pressured him. Hell, we weren’t even gay. And the band. Wouldn’t a relationship between two men in the band just be too weird, too awkward?

It was over.


	8. Everybody Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam doggedly pursues his plan, which is not a good plan, and which does not go particularly smoothly.

It only remained for me to gather my strength and my defenses for the next time we met. I would need all my resources if I was going to act unaffected when in fact I felt devastated -- even if it was my own doing, even if I was breaking my own heart in a preemptive strike. My habit has always been to hurt myself before others can hurt me. Nevertheless, the pain is real.

I got back to the hotel just before the meeting we had in a little room off one of the restaurants early that afternoon. These business meetings are like you’ve seen on television, only less interesting. We catch up on any technical problems and we usually have brief consultations with our techs. Paul tells us when the cars are coming and when the planes are leaving and when the interviews are scheduled. There’s much consultation of laptops and Palm Pilots and, on Bono’s part, much scribbling of notes on napkins. He _has_ a Palm Pilot. Only he’s always left it in his other coat.

I stood for just a moment, gathering myself, before I went inside. Larry and Paul and a couple of others were there already, having a late brunch, but not Bono and Edge. My headache had gone away and come back throughout the morning, and I suddenly remembered I’d eaten nothing since before the gig the night before. I went to the little buffet table in the corner, but I looked out the window at the mountains and had a brief chat with the waiter stationed there, just about the beauty of the scenery, before I grabbed some rolls and little sandwiches and a large amount of coffee. I badly wanted to ask him to round up something alcoholic to put in my coffee. Instead I asked him to track down some tomato juice -- great for hangovers.

My striking up conversations with waiters and staff always drove Naomi crazy. Pissed her off, actually. I know she thought it was egomania, that I assumed they recognized me and would be thrilled to have a few words from the pop star. She was wrong, I think; it wasn’t that I thought they were fans, it was that I thought they were people, people who deserved more than “I’ll have that” and “Bring me this,” star or no star. They deserve at least eye contact and a “please” and “thank you.”

I don’t know why Naomi popped into my head that day. The memory was bittersweet but had long since ceased to cause me pain. She was a lost child in many ways, but two lost children can’t find their way together. I had been no help to her at all and she was no good for me either.

As I sat down by Larry I said, “Does anybody have --” He shoved a bottle of headache stuff at me. “ --Thanks.”

He nodded. “Ann asked about you, says hello,” he said.

“Tell her and the kids hi for me next time.” I shook out a few of the pills. “You look better than I feel.”

“I slept for a very, very long time.” He looked at me then, and paused, frowning.

“What? Am I green?”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Hung over, that’s all. Why?”

“I don’t know -- you look --” He studied me. “I don’t know. Nothing. Pass the sugar, will you?”

“Sure.” My stomach was tense, like it is before going on, no matter how many times we’ve played. Nevertheless, I was hungry, and I ate. But the whole time I was alert. Waiting.

Finally I heard them behind me. Oh, God. Hearing his voice was worse than I had imagined.

“I keep telling you,” he was saying, “it’s just the show going so well and everything.”

“You’re up to something, I know you are,” Bono said. “I’ve only seen you like this a couple of times before. … Good morning.”

Larry looked up as they sat opposite the table from us -- Bono, a little in front, looking tired, had taken the seat nearer me. Edge, further away, winced as he sat, gingerly. I wasn’t sure anyone else caught it. “What the fuck is on your neck?” Larry said to Edge.

Edge blushed and Bono looked embarrassed. Edge said, “Apparently loverboy here was overly amorous in the bar last night.”

There was definitely a mark on Edge’s throat. Suddenly I realized how badly my glasses needed cleaning. I had to lean back from the table to get at my shirttail. My head was filled with the images and sensations: His body on mine, his skin, his smell, holding him, coming, crying out in the half-darkness, my mouth against his neck; instantly I was half hard, remembering it. Apparently I’d bitten or sucked harder than I’d realized. God. I took the time to do a thorough job on the glasses, head down, hoping I wasn’t blushing, not looking at anyone.

“I really don’t remember doing that, is the thing,” Bono said. “Really, I’m sorry.” Then he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I know you didn’t mean to, but it’s embarrassing. I only hope nobody takes my picture for a couple of days.” Oh, he was playing it well. “Good morning,” he said to me.

I glanced at him, trying to be expressionless. “G’morning,” I said neutrally to him, and “Good morning” to Bono. Then I averted my eyes again. Looking at Edge was not something I wanted to be doing just then.

Well, all right. It was _all_ I wanted to be doing just then. Other than, say, undressing him.

The Bono excuse was a good one. Of course he couldn’t name the real culprit. But his slightly impatient tone, his “it’s embarrassing,” served to reinforce my apprehension that he hadn’t wanted what had happened.

“How was your, ah, cowboy history exhibit thing?” Larry asked.

“All right,” Edge said. “Not the most fascinating thing.”

“Says the man who bought all the jewelry in the place,” said Bono.

“Says the man who bought all the cowboy boots in the place,” said Edge.

“They’re just lucky you’re out of the cowboy hat phase or they’d have to shut down for restocking,” Bono returned, smiling, and went to get some food.

Edge was looking at me in a kind of clandestine inquiry. I assumed what Larry had once called “your Adam mask,” the nonchalant, faintly interested face I wear for the public much of the time. Ever-so-slightly elevated brows, ever-so-slight careless smile. I strove to reveal nothing, pretending that what had happened between us had meant nothing to me. Just another fuck, I told myself, my heart shuddering at the heresy. Just a fuck.

He looked and looked again during the meal and the meeting. I made a point of not meeting his eye. Oh, I was a cold-hearted bastard. We got through the meeting, and by the end I felt I’d sent a message, had rebuffed him, without the others noticing. When it was over and we got up, I turned away quickly, while the others were still chatting. I heard him tell someone to wait, that he’d be right back, as I left the room and started across the lobby. He caught up with me at one of those nooks hotels are full of, this one housing a few potted trees. He stopped in front of me, so close that I took a step back into leaves.

He was wearing brown leather jeans, faded and cracked and conforming, a black tee-shirt, and dark grey baseball cap. He looked absolutely stunning. I looked at him from my mask and tried to emulate a brick wall.

He looked at me with a kind of bright hope, and a kind of puzzlement. “Adam?”

I looked back with that mild interest. “Yes?”

He spoke very softly. “Don’t you think we need a word in private?”

“What about?” I busied myself tapping down a new pack of cigarettes.

He waited until I was finished. “About what happened last night, obviously.”

I tried to project faint confusion. “Last night? What happened last night?” I said, and shifted from cool to cold, narrowing my eyes. “We were pretty drunk last night,” I quoted him.

He stepped back involuntarily. I saw the color fade from his cheeks. But he came back. Stood and looked into my eyes. Again I couldn’t look away from him. His eyes … they began as a remarkable swirl of lovely brown and gold. But as I watched, I actually saw them change. The gold glints subsided, and points of green and blue surfaced. I could hardly believe such a thing was possible. I’d seen them different colors at different times but had never witnessed the actual transition.

I tried to just watch the color so I didn’t have to see the expression. But there was no escaping it. He made me look, kept me pinned by his gaze as the hope and the cautious joy faded, faded along with the gold. Made me watch as the hope became hurt and the puzzlement became bewilderment, as his open, pleading expression began to close, began to settle. Oh, it hurt, to know that I was hurting him, that it had meant something to him just as it had to me. And the more it hurt, the more detached I tried to be, the more I tried to keep any feeling out of my own eyes.

“Adam, how can you --” he began impetuously, then shut his mouth. His voice had been rather loud. He stopped for a moment. I don’t know what that pause cost him. I don’t want to know. Then he began again, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “You can’t just mean to -- to -- pretend --” He had to stop again. The pain in his voice shredded my heart. I hated what I was doing to him, what I was doing to myself, all of it. I didn’t know right from wrong anymore.

He was still looking at me, searchingly. I fought. Fought to maintain the impassive mask I’d trained myself to wear. I think I succeeded. Finally he leaned close to me and spoke even more quietly. “You promised not to hurt me, you son of a bitch,” he said. The green in his eyes was snapping and blazing. Then he turned away and headed for the hotel entrance. I couldn’t help it; I reached out after him, involuntarily, while he was still almost within reach. I don’t know what I would have said or done if my hand had touched his shoulder, but it was already too late.

Larry was standing halfway across the lobby in a posture that suggested he’d been there watching us the whole time. As Edge approached him, Larry asked, “Is everything -- are you all right?”

Edge didn’t break stride. He projected his words so they carried clearly back to me. “Oh, yeah, I’m _fucking divine_.”

I don’t know whether I’d ever heard that measure of bitterness, of hurt, in his voice. I wanted to run after him.

I couldn’t.

Then he was pushing through the revolving door. Outside, he stopped and just stood there on the hotel steps. As I watched him, Dallas came out of the meeting room, looked around, and spotted him. He went out and started to speak, and Edge held up his hand to ward him off, shook his head, and said something. Dallas took a step or two back. Then he nodded and came back in, glancing back at Edge a couple of times. And Edge sat down, so suddenly that for a split second I thought he was falling. Just sat there in the afternoon sunshine on the stone hotel steps.

He looked small.

I realized I was standing there with God knows what showing on my face. Larry was staring at me. I was shaking, shaking as though I were freezing to death. I tried to get a smoke out of the fresh pack and dropped them all over the floor.


	9. Larry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, as usual, Larry is direct and correct.

Dallas disappeared and I stood there with a scattering of cigarettes about my feet. Larry scrutinized me. Then Dallas came out of the meeting room with Bono and they headed toward the entrance, talking together. Christ, Dallas had gone to fetch Edge’s fucking caretaker. They stopped and talked and then Bono continued out to where Edge was sitting like an abandoned child.

I could see Bono start to ask questions. Edge shook his head. Bono sat by him and Edge shook his head again, hard, turning his face away. Bono put his arm around him.

Fuck the smokes. I had plenty in my room. I headed for the elevators while Larry was still staring after Bono. I made it without him coming after me. I had to try a couple of times before I managed to push the button to my floor. Then I looked at myself in the mirrored wall of the lift compartment. With loathing.

I made it into my room and to the bathroom before I vomited. Repeatedly. That had been hideous. I chose to believe that it was the throwing up that made my eyes watery.

I had calmed down and was packing when it occurred to me that I wanted to keep the note that I’d thrown away earlier. It wasn’t much of a souvenir, but at least I’d have that much. I had left the “do not disturb” tag out that morning, so the rubbish was still there. I reached into it and … what was this? I dumped the contents of the can onto the bed. There was my note, crumpled. Cigarette packet cellophane. And a little sheaf of paper, folded once, from that hotel pad of paper.

_I guess we were both pretty drunk. Thanks for letting me crash here. Sorry to be so cryptic. You know why I’ll say nothing more. See you later._

_Adam, Thanks for letting me crash here. Guess we were pretty drunk._

_Dear Adam_ , That was all that one said.

And finally:

_Adam, I’m sorry I had to leave to meet B. this morning. Last night … I don’t know what to say, it was amazing. Thanks. Thank you. I’ll see you soon._

The man had written rough drafts. _Rough drafts_ of his note to me.

Oh. I loved him completely, unreservedly. He had sat there while I slept and written these little notes, trying to find the right tone, the right words. It was so characteristic of him.

Then I had deliberately taken his final product in the worst possible light and had done what I had done to him just now.

If you’d asked me the day before, or six months before, or six years, I would have told you that I already hated myself as much as was possible. Today I just kept finding new depths. I stood there thinking what a terrible, selfish, and truly fucked-up individual I was. That perhaps I needed actual help of some kind.

The sudden furious knocking on my door startled the hell out of me. “You had better fucking be in there.”

Larry, of course. He scowled at me as I let him in. “Well?”

“Well what?” I asked.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on, and what the fuck I just witnessed.”

Well, I had known this was coming. I hesitated, but God knows I needed to talk to somebody. I would tell Larry everything and he would make it better somehow in that F-word-laden, loving, surly Larry way of his. He could help me somehow. He always did, always had.

Still, this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

“Right.” I sat down on the bed, thinking of how best to break this to him. I’d told him many difficult things over the years, but this situation … I couldn’t imagine his reaction to it.

“I’m waiting, Adam,” he said. At least he no longer sounded as angry as he had a moment ago.

“Well. Okay. This.” I couldn’t seem to get started. Finally I got up and went to the window and looked out at the bright mountains so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “Right,” I told Mount Whatever. “I’ve had this thing for Edge for a while. A crush on him.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat a little. “Feelings for him.”

Silence.

I turned to look at him. He was looking at me sharply.

“Really,” I said.

He assessed me for a few more moments before nodding. “Okay. I guess you’re not joking,” he said. He seemed strangely calm. I had expected some sort of explosion. After a minute, he grinned.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, really, who could be better for you?” he said.

“What?” I was taken aback.

“He knows you thoroughly, he’s your best friend, he’s seen you through good and bad, and you’ve even lived together, in a way,” Larry said. “I mean, of course this surprises me. I do have concerns. Reservations. But in a crazy kind of way it could be perfect. And the idea of you being attracted to men is not entirely new to me, you know. Have you told him?”

Embarrassed again, I turned back to the window. “Um, kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Last night we slept together,” I said. My cheeks were burning. “And I realized I’m in love with him.”

Silence again.

“Mother _fuck_.”

Oh, God.

“Okay. Hold on,” he said. “Give me those two things one at a time.”

“We slept together last night.”

“What do you mean, slept together?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I was embarrassed. “Slept together! Made love, had sex, engaged in intercourse, I fucked him, all right, Larry? You do know what fucking is?”

Great. Now he was going to break my nose. I turned around to look at him again, apologetically.

He was smiling, a little. “I’m acquainted with the concept, yes,” he said.

“I mean it,” I said, piqued. Was he taking this seriously? It was deadly serious to me. “Doesn’t this upset you?”

“Only if I visualize it.” He gave one of his short bursts of laughter.

“Oh, fuck you.” He made me smile, briefly, despite everything.

“Okay, you slept together,” he said. “Right. Okay. Well, that explains a lot. And?”

“And,” I began, and stuck there.

“Say it again if you want me to believe it, because this is the hard part.”

I sighed. Looked at his feet. At the bed, which I was glad I’d at least made haphazardly before leaving that morning. Anywhere but his face. “I love him, Lar’. I’m in love with him. I don’t know what to do.” Wait a minute. “Is it really so much harder to believe that I … love him … than that I slept with him?”

“No. That Adam Clayton is _admitting_ that he loves someone.”

“Oh.”

“And that scene in the lobby? What was that?” His is the most penetrating gaze of anyone’s I know.

“That was … well …” How was I going to explain this? “This morning I figured … that … we shouldn’t go any further with this, this thing … and so I --” I was at a loss.

He wasn’t. “Treated him like some whore you picked up in a bar?”

“Jesus, Larry.”

“Well? Isn’t that what you’re doing? This morning when he came to the meeting -- did you even see the way he looked at you? He was glowing, Adam. _Shining._ And then after your little discussion, when he was walking away -- he looked like a man who’d just presided at the funeral of his own child.”

“Oh, God. I know.” I was in pain.

“Well? What went wrong?”

“I just -- when I woke up he was gone, and he left me a note that sounded like -- like he wanted to drop it,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as unconvincing to him as I did to myself. “And I just thought, you know, we were drunk, and I kind of put the pressure on him, and I wanted to make it easy for him to walk away today. That’s all.”

“What did this note say?” he asked.

“It just said thanks for letting me sleep here, we were pretty drunk, I’m going to meet Bono now.” I was still holding the notes in my hand. I gave them to him.

He read the crumpled one on top and nodded. “What are these others?”

“I found them in the trash just now,” I said. “Um. Rough drafts.”

Larry snorted. “Of course.” He glanced through them. “But these don’t sound like he was trying to dump you. That’s just your excuse to run away.” He came over to stand with me at the window.

“I’m not -- it’s just --” I started again. “Really. You said you have reservations. Imagine the reservations he and I have. Isn’t it better to just cut it off before it … gets anywhere? I just wanted to get it over with. It just … it didn’t go very smoothly.”

“The point is, it didn’t have to go at all,” he said testily. “Why do you have to do this? Look at you. I can tell how unhappy you’re making yourself. You don’t have to push him away like this. Like you always push away anyone you think you can really love.”

Damn him. I couldn’t exactly deny it. “Come on, Larry, do you really think it’s a good idea for U2’s guitarist and bassist to be sleeping together? I just saved us a lot of trouble.”

“How can you deliberately be so obtuse? Damn it, Adam!” He had raised his voice. “Do _you_ really think it’s a good idea to talk your best friend into bed and then treat him like this the next day? Do you think it’s a good idea to spend your whole adult life throwing happiness away with both hands? I’ve watched you do it for a quarter of a fucking century and I still don’t get it.”

“I don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t deserve _him_.” Wasn’t it obvious?

“Bullshit!” he snapped. “You drive me crazy. Adam, there’s nothing wrong with letting yourself be loved. You _do_ deserve it. What in the hell makes you think otherwise?”

If he couldn’t see what was right in front of him, I didn’t know how to explain it to him. But this was Larry, so I tried. “I’m a stupid, selfish, worthless piece of shit. Just look at me. Look at what I’ve done to him. And if I let someone love me it would just hurt worse when they left me. I can’t stand that … that vulnerability. I just want to protect myself.”

“How could anything possibly hurt you any worse than you’re already hurting yourself? That’s just fucked up.” He touched my shoulder, gently. “Listen to me. You’re not worthless and stupid. You’re one of my dearest friends in the fucking world, Adam. I hate this bullshit that you inflict on yourself, I fucking _hate_ it. Just stop it.”

“I don’t know how,” I said.

“You could start by treating Edge like an adult instead of preempting all the decisions for him. He has no fucking idea why you’re treating him this way. You could _tell_ him. He deserves that.” He shook his head, frustrated. “Are you blind? I saw his face down there. He’s crazy about you, and you crushed him with this complete refusal to deal with it. Or, knowing you, your refusal even to acknowledge that anything happened.”

My voice sounded funny. “It’s -- When I woke up alone after what we did -- the way I felt -- it was just too much for me, everything, it was all too much.”

“It always is, you coward. It fucking always is.”

His words stung me. Not only because he said them, but because they were true. “I didn’t want to hurt him --” I said.

“Well, you are. You’re hurting him terribly and it’s going to hurt us all unless you fix it. Unless you stop running.”

“Larry, I -- I --” I was facing the window, but I couldn’t see anything now. Only glare. “I do love him, but -- I’m afraid to _let_ myself love a man,” I whispered.

He was quiet for a moment. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder again. “Adam, I haven’t forgotten what happened to you the last time you were with a man. I would have killed that abusive son of a bitch in cold blood if I’d been older. But having bad taste in one instance, or bad luck … when you were just a boy, really … that’s not something to base your whole life on. Running away from that kind of vulnerability obviously hasn’t made you happy, or kept you safe from heartache.”

I shook my head. No. It hadn’t.

“I know damned well that years ago you deliberately shut down the side of you that’s attracted to men,” he said. “Just shut it off, and threw yourself into the pursuit of women to compensate. But for God’s sake, you deserve some happiness, and you deserve to live your whole life, not just half. Your whole emotional life. Including the part of you that’s bisexual or gay or whatever.”

Damn him for being such a part of me that he knew everything about me and could psychoanalyze me in thirty seconds. I continued to look blindly in the general direction of the window.

“Listen to me!” he snapped, startling me. He got close to me, in my face. “You know, when normal people are selfish, they’re only thinking about themselves and trying to take all they can get. In your case, selfishness manifests itself in your _not_ taking what you need, what you deserve. Your self-denial is selfish. I’m fucking sick of your cowardice. You have no choice now. You have to work this one out instead of hiding from it.”

He took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. He lowered his voice considerably. “You’re a decent, smart, handsome, likeable guy. You have no reason to do this to yourself. Adam --” His anger had turned to pleading. “Adam, you need to come out of the fucking shadow of the past. Come out of the shadow of your _self._ I can’t heal you, but there’s nothing I want more than for you to heal yourself. I know it’s frightening. I know it’s difficult. But you have to do it. You fucking _have_ to. It’s time to grow up.”

I was -- had been -- full of sorrow and dark embarrassment, but his words also were prompting something bright. The smallest bit of hope, growing somewhere in my belly. My normal voice didn’t work. I sounded like I’d been crying, though I hadn’t. “I don’t know how to change my whole personality, for Christ’s sake. My whole way of looking at the world.”

“You had better fucking learn. You said you loved him. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want him? Want to be a, a couple? Don’t tell me you’re afraid. Just yes or no. Do you want to be with him?”

“Yes. Yes.” More than I’ve ever wanted anything before.

“Then you know what you have to do,” Larry said. “Quit running. Talk to him.”

“After the way I acted today --”

“He’s the most fair-minded man I’ve ever known. Insist that he give you a chance. Make him listen. Keep after him. Explain your twisted little heart out. Apologize like a madman. Whatever you have to do. Adam, you’d trust him with your life. I know you would. Trust him with your heart, too.”

I took the kind of deep breath one takes after a crying jag. Larry. He knew me more thoroughly, and loved me better despite it, than anyone I’d ever known. I was exhausted. Tired of punishing myself, and tired of being punished. Sick and tired of my whole pointless life. I was terrified to admit it to myself, but … he was right. Completely and entirely right.

God help me.


	10. Necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Larry's encouragement, Adam makes another decision. This one's better.

After Larry left, I knelt by the bed.

I don’t pray. I wasn’t praying then. But what had happened in that bed had taken me to a holier place than I’d ever been. So I knelt there and thought for a while about the things Larry had said.

Of course I dwelt at first on the harsher things he’d said. Grow up, you fucking coward. But I knew he was right. If I ever wanted to be … not happy, even, that was so difficult to imagine, but let’s just say less fucked up or, best-case scenario, _far_ less fucked up … I had to change. Had to face my worst fears: rejection, abuse, unworthiness, loneliness, vulnerability. For me, those were horrors to keep me awake at night.

I stretched my arms out across the bed and thought about becoming worthy of what had transpired there. About trusting Edge, trusting him not to hurt me more than I could bear. Trusting him that much. If I could just do that … maybe that leap of faith is what would help me get myself together.

I would try.

I took yet another in a series of deep, shaking breaths. Dear God, the linens still smelt of his skin. That was almost too much for me. I rested my head there for a while longer, breathing him, trying not to cry. I fucking _hate_ crying.

I was hoping the ride to the airport would involve several smaller cars. I wanted to be alone with Edge so I could begin my attempts to apologize, but I was nervous to be around him in the presence of the others … of Bono. Unfortunately we were ushered into one of those massive, rock-star-worthy rides.

I’m not sure any of us four spoke a word during that half hour. We were like a sociological experiment going wrong. I sat nearest Larry, furthest from Edge. Edge had changed into all black. His shirt was carelessly half buttoned, Larry-style. I saw immediately that he had not told Bono, who obviously was concerned and puzzled. Larry scrutinized them both and reached the same conclusion I had. Edge looked out the window most of the time, or off into the distance inside the car. Bono fretted and shot inquiring glances at Larry and me.

Me, I could hardly tear my eyes off Edge. Larry was right. He looked like he was grieving. Like a light in him had gone out. Fuck, I’m no good at this metaphorical stuff. He looked like someone who’d been fucked and been betrayed and had heartache on top of a hangover. But his look also reminded me of many other times I’d seen him under adversity, when he’d shouldered what he had to bear and marched on dry-eyed. He was trying to recover himself after a blow.

And I was the one who’d struck him.

I’ll never forget the awful silence of that ride. The limo’s soundproofing only emphasized our isolation from one another.

On the plane I sat alone and put some early Primus on my headphones. I unexpectedly went to sleep. I hadn’t thought I would, but I was wrung out. I dreamt the kinds of dreams you have when there’s one thing gnawing relentlessly at your mind, the kind that you know what they were about but you can never remember. I just know they were about him. About him and hope and loss, guilt and betrayal. Grief, that’s what I dreamt of. Grief.

I woke up when the CD ended, surprised and groggy. It was quiet. I stood and rubbed my face and stretched and looked around. Larry was further back; I heard talking and some laughter. Most likely the never-ending poker game. I think Lar’ was about half a million in the hole at one point, not that anyone planned on collecting.

Closer to me, back a bit on the opposite side, Bono and Edge had sat together. Bono was on the aisle, sound asleep. His head was on Edge’s shoulder, and they were holding hands, Edge’s hand palm up beneath Bono’s, fingers intertwined. Edge was awake, staring at nothing, exactly as he had in the car. He wasn’t reading, listening to music, or sleeping, he was just … existing, I guess you’d call it. God. The pain on his face went straight to my own heart.

How do you begin to apologize when you’ve taken someone’s most precious gift and discarded it like garbage? Could he ever forgive me? He was generous; he’d forgiven us all many things, many times. But this? Looking at his pale, solemn features, I just couldn’t guess.

I was sure as hell going to try, though. I might not deserve forgiveness. I certainly didn’t deserve _him_. But I _needed_ him. Wanted him. Wanted the warmth and joy I’d felt in his presence, wanted his body in my arms again, wanted to do a thousand things to him that we hadn’t had time for the night before. I wanted to love him, have him, keep him this time.

Fuck scared. Just fuck it. Yes, I was frightened of all the things that had always frightened me. But I was _terrified_ of living the rest of my life the way I’d done so far, fucked up and alone. When my happiness was right there, right there. He was necessary. He was survival itself.

I swore it to myself. This time I’d run toward, not away.


	11. Sobriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam launches his plan to make amends. In a recurring theme, it doesn't go particularly well.

We all had to go to some excruciating reception that evening. The usual -- a party suite in the hotel with food, drinks, and schmoozing.

The base of my skull kept shouting at me that I needed a drink, needed a drink. But perhaps the only lesson I’ve actually taken to heart over the years is that, while I can still drink happy, I can no longer drink unhappy. I can celebrate a good gig, but I can’t drown my fucking sorrows.

Ah, irony. When you actually need to drink is when you can’t.

The dialog in my head went something like this.

_Have a drink, Clayton, you know you could use one._

Shut up.

_Just one or two, you’ll feel better._

Fuck off.

_Christ, I could really use a drink about now._

Too bad.

_God, I can smell it._

Why don’t you just jump off the balcony, you wanker, it’s faster.

I stuck with ginger ale. At least maybe it would settle my fucking stomach, which had been killing me all day. There was food, but I didn’t want any.

So we did the usual mingling and circulating, drifting alone or in groups from the Phoenix newspaper’s music writer, who thought we were a bunch of has-beens, to the Tucson newspaper’s music writer, who thought we were a bunch of demigods, to Alice Cooper and his bassist, who turned out to be pretty cool. Miscellaneous local people who were important or had convinced someone they were. Various females throwing themselves at Bono. Same old thing.

I monitored him. Edge, I mean, of course. Bono hovered protectively at his elbow most of the time, occasionally forgetting himself and bouncing around to other conversations. Edge was still wearing what he’d worn on the flight. He looked the same, tired and solemn. I saw that he exerted himself to be as sociable as he could muster when he needed to, but something about the set of his shoulders … he looked exhausted.

Once Larry came by and stage-whispered to me, “Snap out of it.” I realized I’d been standing there staring at Edge like a lovesick schoolboy. Which is pretty much what I was reduced to at that point. I looked around, but nobody else was looking at me. Thank goodness. Probably everyone in the organization would know eventually, but outsiders didn’t need to catch on.

I stepped out onto the large balcony to have a smoke. Larry came with me. It was a beautiful evening, clear and still, the sky deeply blue. The air tasted fresh after being on a plane and in the hotel all evening. Occasional bursts of laughter or raised voices drifted out through the opened doors, but it was quiet out where we were. As I lit up I saw that Larry was giving me a strange look.

“What?”

He shook his head. “You have no idea that the short blonde is desperately trying to pick you up, do you?”

“Short blonde?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You’re completely oblivious.” He grinned.

“Is there anyone at this party besides _him_?” I asked him.

He sobered. “How are you doing?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet,” I said. “I’m going to take the very first opportunity. This is driving me mad, Larry.”

“I know,” he said. “You both just seem … beside yourselves. Good luck.”

He went back inside as Edge came out, carrying a beer and fishing in his shirt pocket for cigarettes. He hesitated a little before going to the opposite end, as far from me as he could get. He leaned forward on the half-wall that surrounded the balcony and faced the distant mountains, very different from the mountains we’d left earlier that day. I glanced around. The only other people out there, a couple, were just going back in. I took the opportunity and moved near him. He didn’t look at me but kept his eyes on the horizon.

“Edge, I’m so sorry for what I did today,” I began. “Last night was fantastic, it was beyond words, it was incredible. I’m so sorry for the way I treated you today. I … I don’t know how to say that I … really do care for you and I, I don’t expect you to forgive me immediately, but I … hope that you’ll consider giving me another chance. What happened meant so much to me, it …”

Finally I tapered off as it sank home that he had continued to smoke and contemplate Camelback Mountain as though I weren’t even there. To forgive someone, you have to acknowledge that they exist.

“ … Edge?”

He took a drink and, finally, gave a little nod. “I heard you,” he said. I could barely hear him.

“I know it’s going to take a long time for me to convince you how I feel. I acted like such a bastard this afternoon. Edge, I didn’t intend to hurt you like that. I hope you believe that. I know it was … heinous. I’ve never been more ashamed.”

He had turned more toward me. Call it a three-quarters view. But his gaze went past my shoulder or dropped to focus on his drink or his hands on the railing. He wasn’t ignoring me. Quite.

This was torture. I wanted to hold him, cradle him, make the pain I’d inflicted on us both go away. God, I wanted to touch him. But he wouldn’t even look at me.

Finally he cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to tell Bono soon,” he said, softly. “He’s going out of his mind.”

I expected that. “I told Larry.”

He nodded a little, again. “Look, Adam,” he said, slowly, searching for the exact words. “I don’t know why you did this. I’m sure it was … entertaining. You’ve already made it abundantly clear that it meant nothing more than that to you. And I think today I’ve learned something about … about gullibility and naiveté. I’m not going to spend my time playing Good Adam/Bad Adam with you. I don’t need any more humiliation. I’m going to pull myself together and be able to continue on this tour. Perhaps someday I’ll even feel able to work with you -- record with you -- again. Outside of that I just want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

I was appalled. “Edge, I know this is hard to believe, but I’ve never been more sincere in my life. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Last night -- with you -- I’ve never been so happy or felt so undeserving. Please. Can’t you … can you just look at me?”

He sighed. Then he lifted his head, lifted his gaze from his beer bottle. I don’t think I actually staggered back a step or two. I think it was all in my head, or my heart, when I saw his haggard face dead on and close up.

His eyes, so dark. I saw then the depth of his heartbreak, the shock and grief I’d brought him. Nearly despair. He was suffering. I’d suffered nothing in comparison. I felt my mouth moving, heard myself say “No … Edge …”

“God damn you, Adam,” he said in a broken whisper. “I hope you’ve said everything you wanted to say, because I never want to talk about this again.” Then he turned and walked away, upending his beer as he went back into the room and headed directly for the bar.

I said it again, although there was nobody there to hear. “Edge …”


	12. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam keeps his resolve to keep trying, and gets a surprise.

Well, it’s not as though I had expected that first apology to go particularly well or to be accepted right away. After what I’d done to him, I knew it would take a while.

I was prepared for that, although I was shaken by the depth to which I’d wounded him.

Bono wanted to go out when the party finally wound down hours later, but nobody else really wanted to. Finally he talked Larry into it. Edge and I both said we were too tired. Bono spent several minutes in close conversation with Edge before leaving. I saw Edge nod and nod again and Bono clap him on the shoulder as he left.

As the party finally broke up I realized that another opportunity was coming up. I intended to follow Larry’s advice and resume my petition at every chance. I hadn’t done particularly well on the balcony, and I wanted to explain myself better this time. So when Edge got off the lift at his floor, I followed him.

“What are you doing?” he asked as the doors closed behind us.

“Just a word,” I said, following him down the corridor.

He kept walking without looking back at me. “We’ve had words.”

“Edge -- just a word. Really.” We reached his door.

He glanced at me as he stuck his card into the door. “What part of ‘leave me the fuck alone’ couldn’t you grasp?” The little lights flashed and he opened the door.

“Please,” I said before he could slip inside and close the door between us, and I put as much of what I felt into the word as I could. “Edge, _please_ ,” I begged.

He just stood there for a second. Then he said “Damn you,” softly, as he turned to face me. He folded his arms and waited in the doorway.

As Larry had said, this was the fairest man I’d ever known.

“Just let me come in for a few moments. I just want to explain myself.”

His only movement was to clench his jaw muscles a little. “Absolutely not.”

Shit. This would be much easier in private. I glanced up and down the corridor and kept my voice down. “Look. I just want to say that … I wasn’t just … trying to use you or trying to hurt you. I really do have feelings for you, Edge, and I just … it, being with you affected me so much that I got scared and pushed you away. That’s all. It wasn’t a game or a deliberate campaign to shame you. I really am in earnest. I was frightened at how much I felt -- _feel_ \-- and how …” I was so ashamed at this point that I was having trouble speaking. “I felt so undeserving of you that I ran from you before you could come to your senses and run from _me_ ,” I finished. “I’m so sorry.”

His expression hadn’t changed. He was just waiting, arms still folded. “Done?”

“I could go on all night, actually.”

He held up his hands briefly to stop me. “Okay. Let me say this again. I do not want to keep talking about this. I’ve already been embarrassingly naïve to believe that _you_ could care for anything or anybody. Don’t play sincere with me at this point, Adam. It’s far too late for that. I’ve witnessed your frivolous sexual exploits for a quarter century.” He took a breath. Anger was sparking in his eyes. “I’m most upset about the fact that I should have _known_ you were playing a fucking game with me and I didn’t. I want to be finished with this fucking conversation. I want to be finished with this whole fucking episode. All right? Good night.”

He turned and opened the door. I just had time to step forward and babble as fast as I could “Edge think about it I wouldn’t have risked everything like this unless I meant it please wait” before the door closed in my face.

It was a testament to his character that he didn’t slam it. He closed it gently. Click. And it was over.

I put my hands on the door and leaned forward against it in a kind of embrace, resting my face and chest against it. After a minute I stood back and just looked at it for a while, occasionally lifting a hand to touch it lightly. But I didn’t bother him again.

I went back to my own room two floors higher and tried to get ready for bed. I burned some of my nervous energy in finishing unpacking. I paced. I pulled his little notes from my pocket and read them over again. Even the one that just said “Dear Adam.” I held that black cloth to my face and again inhaled what was left of his scent from it. I did not cry. I asked myself whether he could love a miserable asshole like myself, and I told myself that the unhappiness he was experiencing meant that he had cared for me; that he had slept with me, after all; and that he had initiated the second time, not me.

I stripped and went to bed, and I lay there and relived that second encounter in my mind, slow and gentle and warm and loving. His weight on me, his face, the way he’d kissed me.

Oh, God. This had to end.

Finally I dozed off, but it was a kind of waking fever-sleep that brought no comfort and no rest. Eventually I gave it up and got up and smoked. I was exhausted, but my mind and heart wouldn’t let my body take over. His smell. How he’d slept in my arms. His body, his hands, his laughter. Christ, what had I done.

I threw on some clothes and went back downstairs. Out of the lift and turn right. Halfway down this corridor on the left. There. His room.

I continued on past it to the end of the hall. There was a window, a ledge, a heating register, and the corridor continued right in an “L” shape. The window had a small panel that was openable. I opened it so I could smoke while I perched on the register and watched his door. What time was it? I didn’t know. The middle of the fucking night, and I didn’t have the nerve to knock, but … I couldn’t sleep anyway, and somehow I just felt better nearer him, keeping watch. Watching over a space he inhabited.

I sat there for a long time. Someone came out of the elevator, but they went the other direction. There was an occasional distant hotel-type sound. I smoked. When my arse went to sleep I got up and walked down the hall and stopped at his door for a minute before going on down the hall, then back to my perch.

Around dawn I started and realized I had nodded off. That’s one of the cruelest aspects of grief, I’ve always thought -- your loved one lies in a fresh grave, but your stomach growls; you’ve broken your heart, but you need sleep. Such normal wants become like a mockery.

Well, fuck that. My emotional needs took precedence over the physical right now.

I lit another smoke and watched my hands shake. I guess it was something like thirty hours since I’d kept food down.

And about twenty-four since we had been holding one another close.

Which would make it something like twenty hours since I’d broken my heart and sixteen since I’d broken his.

Fuck this. I stubbed out the current cigarette savagely on the windowsill. I was going to knock on his fucking door, wake him up, fucking _hammer_ on it until he let me in.

I was about to stand up when his door began to open. My heart took an interesting little jump around in my chest when I realized it. And then he stepped into the hall and looked both directions, freezing when he saw me.

Only it wasn’t Edge.

It was Bono.

 


	13. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bono and Adam have a confrontation. They're both a little pissy, let's be honest.

I was so shocked to see Bono -- and he to see me, I suppose -- that we both held our positions and stared at one another for what seemed like a long time.

And part of me wasn’t shocked at all. Deep inside, an inner voice was saying, _Of course. Of course._

Bono turned away after a minute. He took a few steps and then stood there, running one hand through his hair and thinking. I could almost hear him sigh before he turned and strode toward where I was sitting.

Oh, Christ. Now what. Him, Bono, there, in that time and place; what did it mean? I could feel doors closing inside me, things sliding shut, my self-preservation instincts sounding alarms.

We looked at one another. He clearly didn’t know how to begin, and I hadn’t a clue what to say either. In his face I saw a tumult similar to my own; anxiety, doubt, confusion, anger. Finally he just said, “He told me.” Those remarkable eyes searched my face. I swallowed and got out another cigarette but didn’t light it. I just needed some little thing to hold on to.

“We were talking all night and I wanted to ask you not to wake him,” he said. “He finally went to sleep a half hour ago. He thought …because his feelings were so hurt today, because _he_ was so hurt, he thought he’d been a fool, that you had just used him. That you had just …” He stopped and cleared his throat. “You know, that you were just being a … a callous bastard. He was too hurt to think clearly. But it didn’t ring true once you actually thought about it. I know you, Adam. I told him you were running scared, doing that scared bullshit you do when you think someone’s gotten too close to you.”

He caught my gaze and held it, looking into me for the truth. I wasn’t bothering to try to conceal it. Not anymore.

Seeing confirmation in my pain, my fear, he nodded and looked away, running that habitual hand through his hair again. He looked tired and frustrated. It was a lot, everything he’d learned tonight was a lot to take in. God knows what he was thinking.

I had to ask. He’d just come from Edge’s room. I couldn’t look at him as I asked it. “Do you think … he can forgive me?”

“Jesus, Adam, I don’t even know whether _I_ can,” he snapped. “You broke his fucking heart today.”

And suddenly I was irritated. Irritated, frustrated … jealous … whatever. “Fuck you,” I said, getting up. “Do you think it’s been easy falling in love with my fucking best friend when he has someone like _you_ in his life?”

We stared at one another for a minute again, both perturbed now. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

Fuck this. “Forget it.” I threw down the unlit smoke and started to walk away.

“Now you’re running from me, too? Adam, what the fuck are you afraid of?”

Bono has a knack for asking the right question. I felt as though he’d kicked me in the stomach. I wrapped my arms around myself and looked down at nothing. What the fuck was I afraid of? “Being gay. Being loved. Loving him. Not deserving him. Losing him. Losing him to _you_. You. Everything. Being alone --”

My voice broke there. No, it fucking _shattered._ I clapped a hand over my mouth and then bit hard into the flesh between my thumb and first knuckle. A kind of wail forced out from between my teeth. Then Bono grabbed me and spun me around, roughly, and then he was holding me tightly. “Shh, Adam. Shh,” he said, and held me.

I fought for some kind of control over myself, clinging to him, biting my hand, and clutching his shirt in my fists, and finally achieved it. I whispered so that I wouldn’t shout. “Please let me have him. Don’t take him. I love him so much. If I’ve lost him I don’t know what I’ll do. Please.”

He was whispering back, “Shh. It’ll be all right. He’s not mine. We never. I just like to get drunk and kiss people. You know that. I told him he has to talk to you. He loves you. I know he does. Hold on, Adam. Hold on.”

I did. I held on so tightly that I probably left bruises on his shoulders. He didn’t flinch. He held me and let me hold him for as long as I needed to. Finally I felt I could stand, and gradually I let him go.

I wiped my dry cheeks and rubbed my dry eyes, too embarrassed to look at him. He kept a hand on my shoulder and said softly, “He was deeply hurt. But then he began to believe that it wasn’t just you being a bastard but that you were frightened by the very intensity of it. … Of course, now he’s pissed off, but at least he believes you care for him. Maybe he’ll listen now.” He moved his hand up my neck, soothingly. “You look like hell. You should try to sleep.”

I nodded. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here to … be close, I suppose. Bono … thank you. Thank you for talking to him.”

“I had to.” His manner was gentle. “I need him to be happy.”

“Do you really think …” I couldn’t say it, does he love me, so I said something else. “Do you think he’ll listen? Maybe let me … give me another chance?”

“Yeah. I think he will. He might not get over it in one day, but … I think he’ll … I think he’ll recover. Are you all right?”

I shrugged. “As all right as I’ve been today. Jesus.” I ran my hands over my face again, and over my hair. “I just feel so … so naked, all the time. Like my skin’s gone and all the nerves exposed. I’m completely frazzled.”

He pulled me close again and kissed my temple and forehead. “Just hold on,” he said. “And rest, for God’s sake. I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

I watched him walk away. When he passed Edge’s door he reached out and let his fingers brush across it, softly, silently.

A few minutes later I did the same.

 


	14. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward soundcheck, another show, another effort on Adam's part. Finally Edge agrees to listen.

At last I was able to sleep, and in the late morning when I woke up I was able to eat something, too. As I’ve said, Bono’s not like any other person; when _he_ comforts you, you do feel comforted. I wasn’t actually much closer to salvaging anything than I had been the day before, but I felt better.

Still, I had a long way to go.

Doing our bit of soundcheck is a less interactive process than you’d imagine. Unless we're trying something new or trying to resurrect something, we’re not paying attention to each other, or to the songs, when we finally get to play them; instead each of us is intently focused on what we’re hearing and what we need to hear. So it wasn’t until afterward when we went backstage to eat that I saw much of Edge.

There was something new in his face, even as he continued to ignore me as much as possible. He was so controlled, though. I couldn’t decide whether it was wariness or anger.

I felt sorry for Larry and Bono. It was like a gathering of a family that has a secret everyone knows but nobody ever discusses. Certainly nobody was going to bring it up, but Edge and I were recipients of many glances of concern. Once I saw that Larry and Bono were exchanging looks, conveying to one another: yes, I know; yes, I’m worried.

The show was good. I’d been concerned, but there wasn’t time to think about anything personal; as I’ve said before, when playing, it’s hard to pay attention to much else, especially when you do a fairly large-scale show. As always, it was just the music, washing over me, rumbling through me, carrying me. Perhaps Edge smiled less than usual, but he was no big smiler on stage anyway; perhaps I kept to my own side more than usual, but I wasn’t much of a roamer anyway.

My inner core of fear and sorrow and guilt never quite lifted, but the music, the performance, uplifted and fulfilled me, as had always been the case. This is what I was born to do, if anything, this was my realm, and it was never unrewarding.

Afterward, it was as always, Bono bouncing off the walls and Larry grinning to an extent that would shock our fans. I was still on a mission, and I hastened to get in and out of the shower as quickly as possible. I dressed in a hurry and went to Edge’s dressing room door before he had time to get ready and get away from me.

Bono and Larry were drinking in the lounge or whatever you call it. Both looked up when I knocked on Edge’s door. Then both moved to the far end of the room and carefully did not look as Edge opened the door.

He stood there looking at me, expressionless, for what seemed an eternity. No, not expressionless -- masked. Something dark was moving in his eyes. Then he stepped back and jerked his head for me to go in, and he closed the door behind me.

I stood near the door as he tossed the towel he was holding into a hamper and ran a hand -- quite unnecessarily -- over his head. He picked up a bottle of water and looked at me, warily, drinking.

He was so handsome my heart hurt.

“You know we have things to say to one another,” I said. “You’re going to have to hear me out sometime. I’ll just keep stalking you until you let me have my say.”

“I think you already made it abundantly clear where you stand,” he said evenly. “There’s no need to continue to rub my face in it.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

He sighed. “What, then?”

“Look, when … before, when I said … when I acted as though it meant nothing to me, I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to protect myself.”

He made a sarcastic snorting noise. “Adam, lately it’s a little hard to tell when you mean what you say.”

I bit my lip. That was justified. “Just let me tell you,” I pleaded. “Please, Edge, just let me do this.”

He leaned back against the vanity table, watching me cautiously. Finally he nodded. “Okay, let’s get it over with,” he said. “This time I’ll hear you out.”

A great, unreasonable burst of relief arose in my chest. Not that he seemed receptive, but at least he was giving me something of a chance. I took a deep breath. Right. This time I decided to start at the beginning.

“It was going on a year and a half ago that I realized I was attracted to you,” I began. I talked for a long time. I told him the simple truth as simply as I could, how my feelings had grown and grown until I’d given up fighting them and given up denying them and finally decided to let them show, bit by bit. How worried I’d been about losing his friendship. And then what the night we’d spent together had meant to me.

“It happened so suddenly -- unexpectedly, I mean -- and when you’d gone to sleep I realized that it was everything I’d been looking for, everything I lacked.” He was listening, arms folded protectively, looking down to the side. “Edge -- it wasn’t just the sex, which was the most incredible experience of my life --” he colored slightly -- “It was the first time I realized that … it was the first time I ever knew what it could be like when love and sex coexist. I’d never felt that before. To love someone I slept with, to sleep with someone I love.” I’d moved to right in front of him. I bent and caught his averted gaze and made him look at me.

“Edge -- I lay there with you sleeping beside me and I realized I’m in love with you. Edge, I love you.”

His eyes were large and dark. The silence in the room was a tangible thing. His lips quivered just a little, then he controlled them. “Then why,” he said huskily. “For God’s sake, why.”

“When I woke up and you were gone, I convinced myself it couldn’t have meant as much to you. Edge, every time I’ve let someone get close to me, it’s been a disaster, so I try not to let anyone in at all. I’d let you in _all_ the way, and … I kept thinking you’d reject me, I couldn’t believe you wanted me the way I wanted you. I told myself you were drunk, and I’d been so … aggressive. Letting myself love you, Edge, it gave you power over me. I was terrified I’d lose you so I … did it first. I know it sounds crazy. I felt so fucking vulnerable --”

He was standing, his face contorted with anger; he pushed me backward until I met the wall and stopped abruptly. My God, had I ever seen him display this kind of rage before? “Vulnerable!” he shouted at me, livid. “Jesus Christ, Adam, you don’t know the first thing about vulnerable, you weren’t the one bent over --”

I gasped out loud and he snapped his mouth shut and we stared at one another, horrified. If either of us said any more, said the wrong thing at this fragile moment, something between us would be irreparably severed. We both knew it.

Finally he muttered “Fuck” and turned away, holding the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Edge,” I whispered, afraid. Then I found I could speak. “I tore my own heart out when I broke yours. Edge, I’ve never been more ashamed of anything I’ve done in my life. Not even Sydney. Not even Sydney.”

He whirled back upon me, anguished, and grabbed my biceps so tightly that my hands went numb. “You love me,” he said nastily.

I nodded. “I love you,” I said miserably. It came a little easier this time.

“How could you deliberately hurt me so badly if you love me?” he asked. Then he shouted at me. “How the fuck could you do that to me? How dare you?” I flinched from his voice, which was almost unrecognizable. “How could you?” he demanded. Then a tear slid down his face, and my heart broke for the hundredth time in the past two days.

“I didn’t fucking ask for this,” he said, more quietly. “I didn’t ask you to make me love you, God damn it.”

My heart, apparently, was not yet tired of alternating shattered depths and soaring hope; it rose yet again, in the midst of the horrible morass of doubt and pain that filled me.

“You fucking broke my heart,” he cried, and then we were holding one another in a wounded, furious embrace. “I love you, Adam,” he said in my ear. “You fucking bastard.”

Then something was changing, there in the room; it was like floating on a river and suddenly realizing the still surface leads inexorably to a violent waterfall; one thing has become another; at one moment you’re horizontal, on a calm body of water, and at another you’re falling, irretrievably borne into the cataract.

So it was with us -- holding one another, we were almost grappling; certainly he was angry, and my feelings were all in a tumult. His hands were bruising my arms, and then, suddenly, his lips were crushed against mine, desperately, angrily, sorrowfully, anything but lovingly. The sounds like grief, like need, whimpers, those were mine, and the sounds like rage, like contempt, growls, those were his. His hands holding my face were rough and vindictive.

He shoved his hips against me as we kissed and I threw my arms around him and held on. Then his hands were rubbing me, firmly, through my trousers. I moaned and threw my head back, and he kissed and bit my neck as he opened my clothing.

Groaning, he put his fingertips to my throat, tracing up and down; then his hands were firmly on me, and I staggered and leaned my shoulders back against the wall. His grip on me was rough and unpracticed, which was even more arousing than gentle skill could have been; his motions seemed done more for his own need than to bring me any pleasure, and that too I found more frantically exciting at that moment than loving ministrations would have been.

Still tossed in that torrent of emotion, he brought me, harshly, to that inescapable brink, and I threw one arm out flat against the wall for something to hold on to. He was panting raggedly near my ear. I brought the other hand to my mouth to try to stifle the sounds he tore from me, which were hoarse and needy and somehow melancholy too, and then I was falling, diving, plunging over the brink of necessity and desire, beyond everything, and all I could was bend my head forward onto his shoulder and muffle my cries there, helpless.

When I came to myself I was clinging to him with one arm and still bracing against the wall with the other, my chest heaving. He was panting and shuddering against me. I felt I could hardly stand, so I gave it up and sank to my knees before him.

He made a guttural sound and started to reach for me, then stopped. I ran my hands over his legs as he pulled off his shirt and cleaned his hands with it. Then he put his hands on my head. I felt him try to grip, but my hair was too short. I vowed right then to grow it enough so that he could grab it, fist it, if … if.

He ran his hands over my head in a kind of desperate caress as I opened his jeans and shoved them down a bit. I could hear him making little pleading sounds, and then I tasted him for the first time. Oh, Jesus. My tongue, then my lips, and his voice changed to deep, low moans in his throat.

I heard him whisper, “Oh, God --” His hands were hard on my head, holding me, commandingly, still with that tempestuous mix of desire and frustration. I barely remembered doing this, a lifetime ago, but I knew what I liked myself, and that’s what I tried to give him, guided by his moans and his hands and hips and the trembling of his legs. He rocked against me, fucking me, and I took it and took it and did to him everything I could think of with my tongue and my mouth.

Finally he was crying aloud, wordless, unmistakable vocalizations, thrusting into my mouth, clutching urgently at my head and shoulders. I opened my throat and pulled his hips forward, choking a little but rewarded by his drawn-out “oh, oh yes.” He stiffened and stiffened as though he were trying to climb up the wall on his back; his hands roamed mindlessly over the back of my head, and I sucked him hard, and then he was wailing, beautifully, and I tasted it. My mouth filled with it and I swallowed, then a second time as he shuddered and shook.

Finally he was still, leaning back against the wall, and he said, shakily, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

I got up and we held one another, more gently this time, more like lovers. When his breathing had slowed somewhat he looked at me and stroked the line of my jaw. “Oh my God,” he said. “Oh, God, thank you.”

I smiled. “My pleasure.”

Although it seemed that the anger had dissolved, we weren’t joyful; there had been too much pain for that, but we held one another like soldiers, like brothers wounded together in the same battle and now recovering together. We could smile, but we couldn’t yet laugh.

Finally we stepped apart enough to put our clothes back in order. He found another shirt; I had a drink of water; we prepared to face the other two, and in fact anybody within a wide radius, who most certainly would have heard us. God, we’d been so … completely indiscreet. I’d hardly given a thought to the fact that Bono and Larry were fifteen meters away throughout that whole episode. The shouting, the sex … oh, God.

We put on our brave faces and started to go. Then I saw the folded bit of paper stuck in under the door.


	15. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a conversation that goes well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for riding along!

Edge looked at the note, smiled, and handed it to me. It was in Bono’s writing:

_A car will wait for you. The driver has already been heavily compensated. Larry and I are hoping for the best. We will begin at the hotel bar in case you can join us later._

“Let’s hope they left while we were still just shouting at one another,” I said, and Edge smiled his small smile again.

We walked to the car together like survivors of some disaster limping to safety, leaning on one another, supporting one another. Inside, we huddled together as though gaining strength from each other.

“I can’t be in public right now,” Edge said as we neared the hotel. He was holding my hand, palm-up, running his thumb gently over my calluses. “I’ll send them a note and we can just go to my room instead if you’d like.”

I knew exactly what he meant. I felt far too raw and vulnerable to be around other people. We’d been through a lot that night. “I don’t want to have to not touch you,” I said. “Just getting to your room will be too long.”

We did manage to keep our hands off one another as we went in. I looked over his shoulder at the front desk as he wrote the note: _All’s well. We’ll see you at breakfast._ He signed it with an E and looked at me inquiringly for approval, and I took the pen and put an A beside his initial, grinning. A few fan encounters later and we were in the elevator, alone again, and then in his room.

All the awkwardness had not entirely died away. We sat on his bed with the lights low and talked and began the healing of one another through the long, too-short night.

I told him I’d found and kept his notes from the rubbish and that I still had his head cloth as well. I told him all of how I’d felt and thought that morning after. How I’d been overwhelmed by my feelings; how fantastic it had been to spend the night with him; how splendid, and how terrifying it was, the dismal knowledge that I could never be good enough, never _be_ enough, for someone like him.

He interrupted me. “Adam, you have to know that’s bullshit,” he said gently. “My God, you’re …” he trailed off, smiling.

“What?”

He shook his head. “You’re smart and clever and funny. You’re handsome and you’re dangerously sexy. _And_ you’re talented. I don’t know where this comes from, and I don’t know how to take it away. But you have to realize that you’re more than worthy of love.”

I shook my head, helplessly. “Edge -- I just can’t -- God, how could I ever deserve you?”

He hushed me and kissed me and undressed me. What had happened between us earlier that night had been violent and hurt and angry. His mouth on me now was tender and forgiving and kind. It brought tears to my eyes before it brought his name to my lips, over and over again, softly, in a sorrowful and loving voice I barely recognized as my own.

Later, I told him how Larry had confronted me and made me tell him everything, made me face up to my own fears and needs, my own heart. How I knew it would be difficult, but I had decided to grow up, as Larry had put it, to confront my twisted nature and try to overcome it, to accept what I needed and to try to believe that I deserved it as well.

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “I’ve broken bad habits of the body before. This, it’s a habit of the mind, it’s harder to break, but … I’ll do my best.”

“You can never hurt me like that again,” he said, gently, holding my hand again, running his thumb lightly over mine. “If you do, I’ll die of grief. You have to come to me instead of running from me.”

“I will. I don’t think I could live through this again either,” I said. “Edge, I’m so sorry.”

“I know. I’m forgiving you,” he said. Then he told me how it had been for him. How he’d tried to write me a note that said neither too much nor too little. “I kept thinking Larry or Bono, or anybody, could see this. I wanted it to be a bit subtle. I was … I was in a kind of shock. It was so much. I realized, _my God, I’ve slept with another man. I’ve slept with my best friend._ And I was worried about how you’d react that day as well. I know you’d had more to drink than you’d intended; I was afraid you’d have regrets.”

He said Bono had kept asking him, that first morning, what had so affected him. “I was bursting with happiness and nerves and … I don’t know what,” he said. “It must have been written all over my face. It had taken me so long to come to realize what I felt for you, and then … it happened so suddenly, and I woke up and felt so changed.”

I smiled at that. “So changed,” I said. “I understand that. I was changed, and everything, everything was changed.”

He smiled back at me, almost shyly. “Oh, and that morning, I got us these.”

He showed me two necklaces he’d bought at the exhibit he and Bono had gone to. They were only slightly different, chunks of turquoise on black silk cords, his a bit squarer, mine more oval.

“That morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about your eyes. How blue they were, and how they’d shone, and … your eyes aren’t exactly this color,” he said. “But these were the bluest stones I could find there. I wanted to have something on my body to remind me of them, and something for you to remember it too.”

Moved, I could hardly give up holding the stone in my hand in order to put it around my neck. Our first time. The beginning.

Then I gave him my mouth, again, and again the act was totally unlike our earlier desperation. This time I tried to be as slow and sweet and teasing as I could. Earlier that night, he’d fucked my mouth; now I made love to him with my lips and tongue until he was gasping and panting and thrashing beneath me, beautiful, eager, and then there, there in that urgent, exhilarating country I would never tire of visiting with him.

Still later he told me how it had felt when I’d rebuffed him and how confused he’d been at first. How he’d come to believe I’d meant all along to fuck him and discard him, and how that belief had shattered him. He spoke matter-of-factly about it, about being heartbroken. And how at last Bono had led him to the truth of it. He’d seen it many times, how I would close myself off when I was in danger of being loved, how I would retreat. Finally he’d begun to recognize my behavior for what it was.

“That didn’t make me feel much better at first,” he said. “But it did make the grief begin to turn to anger.” He apologized for the things he’d said to me over the last couple of days, the names he’d called me, how cold he’d been.

I told him I quite understood. “I deserved it and more after how I treated you.”

“Neither of us did well,” he said. Magnanimous soul. “Thank you for not giving up. I know it took courage, to keep approaching me in the face of rejection.”

Finally toward dawn he asked me to make love to him again, and this time we held each other in our arms and I looked into his face when I took him, slowly and gently, looked into his startling beautiful eyes as they swirled and changed, shining gold in the gold of the sunrise. When he came, I whispered to him over and over that I loved him, he was beautiful, I never wanted to lose him. When I came, he bit my shoulder and held me tightly, tightly.

At last, when the night was over and we readied ourselves to face the others, we went downstairs together, self-conscious and smiling. I knew that we would meet whatever the future held in the same way. Together.


End file.
